


Bees in His Breath

by Bidawee



Series: Roots Run Deep (sire/dam) [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Arguing, Child Abandonment, Foster Care, Grief/Mourning, Implied Mpreg, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 13:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17529578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: MESSAGES                                                                                              10m agoAustonDaniel is skating at 4 today. U want in?





	Bees in His Breath

**Author's Note:**

> end notes have all the logistics to this world if you want a look. can be read as a stand-alone from consecutive points but it does require some squinting.
> 
> fun guessing game: see if you can find out who mitch is related to in the league!

The address texted directs him to some spit-up outdoor rink on the outskirts of Brampton. Peewee practice has just ended and the pack of silver minivans are filling with hockey equipment bags before zapping off in the direction of the nearest family-run pizza place. The remaining folk are either the linesmen and volunteer referees or baggy-eyed parents making up the line that is weaving in and out of the concession stand queue.

The pulsating thunk of trap music reverberating in and out of the nosebleed seats hasn’t touched this poor, unfortunate space. The bleachers will only hold immediate family on tournament weekends and eight in the morning practices. It’s a time capsule masquerading as a place for leisure skating.

To this day, Mitch can’t understand how a place full of chipped paint benches, backhanded coach compliments, and the barbed accusations of older folk calling penalties for the referees on six-year-olds was ever capable of rearing a generation of hockey geniuses.

Now, the sole occupant of the ice is three, maybe going on four; Mitch had gouged the dates from his calendar as soon as humanly possible. The boy is contained inside the rings of blue and red with only his double-blades skates to paddle with. Now, he sits destitute, willing himself to be able to make the distance between him and his ‘pa much shorter.

Mitch remains on the perimetre. It’s not easy to ease the friction between him and his genetics when Auston takes the reins and masters the whole infant-directed speak: the one with the high pitch and slurred words that makes the boy smile.

And speak of the devil, Auston begins singing his name from his little nest of ice shavings and recently put down salt. Mitch clenches his thighs twice to give himself something to focus on as he walks over.

Wordlessly, Auston forks over a coffee with two creams, two sweetener. Auston’s free hand scrunches up a paper baggie with a Boston cream donut oozing a creamy pudding filling. The chocolate frosting glistens. With a nod of gratitude, Mitch takes the two items and recognizes how the heat shoots through his arm. His eyes flap shut for a second. He can do this.

They meet in the middle of a minefield. There isn’t a single interaction they share that isn’t charged with a negative energy And yet, the gravitational pull situates them side-by-side.

“How was traffic?” Auston asks. He punctures the amniotic sac of awkwardness cocooning Mitch. Something about how he roasts the kindness of his words always does.

“Fine,” Mitch replies. “Just got my snow tires on.”

“Nice.”

“And I’m not driving as fast anymore so,” his shoulders jerk, “double whammy?”

Auston smiles over the rim of his drink. “We call that character development.”

“Shut up.” He checks Auston, mindful of the almost-dislocated shoulder that drives a wedge between them and their glorious season. Their knees bounce together, billows of steamy white exhale dancing together and fogging up the glass separating them from the ice they call home.

They abide in some prohibition comfort when the giddy times draw to a close. It’s nothing finite or tangible; you can’t touch it. It’s Daniel that winds up their borrowed time. Thanks to the boy’s guardian, he has located a rubber puck and with no stick to call his own, he moves with purpose to kick it.

His hair is getting longer now. It ripples down through the straps and buckles holding his helmet secure. Mitch remembers being a blond baby and for a second, mourns that his genetics don’t hold strong. At the same time, the blackened tufts are so fitting. They frame and contain the explosion of freckles on the cheeks so nicely.

Something is going to give. The watershed holding back all that unconquered torment will fold. It’s just a matter of time.

Auston takes a long sip of his coffee. “They want me to sire again.”

And there it is. It was never really about their kid. It’s always some decoy for a greater evil. If it weren’t for Daniel they might not even be on speaking time.

“Okay.”

“I told them I didn’t have a decision yet. I mean, they told me it was coming but wow, it just hits you.”

The memory of a single phone call disturbing the rhythm of his life comes to mind. Mitch now has the fortune of hindsight; of knowing he comes from a rich gene pool citing a few of hockey’s greatest modern superstars and first round picks. It could’ve been delusion that made him fight against the inevitable. It didn’t change how his name came up in the draft, matched to a mutt with no pedigree to mash bloodlines with: they called it a match in heaven.

Now, someone else is going to get the same privilege.

The bones in Mitch’s fingers ache. “I remember them saying something about diversifying the gene pool. I’m sure if they toss Gretzky genes in anymore we’ll actually have enough of them to make a league,” Mitch says. The words are so high-strung they’re on the verge of snapping.

“I hear McDavid’s getting some now. They want a piece of him while he’s still healthy.”

“Yeah well, can you blame them?” It gets a dry laugh from Auston. The discomfort still sits heavy between them. Mitch isn’t sure why he came again.

Both of them reset their body motions. It’s back to the stiff, reporter-style whitewash that severs their friendship with scissor prongs.

“So who are they pairing you with?” It comes out with a bite. The whole tone is painted with a thick coat of envy.

It’s something both of them expected for quite some time but that doesn’t mean Mitch will open his mouth and swallow the offering, no questions asked. Auston’s going to have someone younger, prettier, and more talented underneath him. Right now though, his only son is Daniel. Mitch has something to hold himself to.

Auston clears his throat. “I’m not going to do it.”

“Auston--“

“Don’t _Auston_ me, I know what I want.”

“They’re probably going to pay you so much.” He thinks back to the period intermissions where they display those bold white arrows shooting up beside Auston’s name. It’s collated with zeroes, pushing Auston’s value higher and higher.

“Don’t you think I know that? I don’t care.” Auston twists his torso to the side. Mitch isn’t tall enough to wrestle back some control of the situation. All he can do is lean his weight on Auston’s arm, maintaining his presence in the conversation.

He feels his bottom lip quiver. “What are you going to do?”

Auston’s eyes turn on him. They look as though they’re mined of granite, hard around the edges. “I’m going to be a great father for Daniel, that’s what.”

Mitch’s eyelids slot down. They stage a cinematic look. Figures blur into wobbly abstract shapes; all but Auston, who remains upright.

“You don’t have to though.” The loaded words venture out, exposed to the elements.

Complimenting his eyes, Auston’s entire face morphs into something unfamiliar. Monstrous.

“This again? Fuck you, Mitch. Fuck you for thinking this is some kind of negotiation. _You don’t have to._ Of course I don’t have to. But he needs someone, doesn’t he? After all, he doesn’t have you.”

The polystyrene cup in Mitch’s hand crumples under the power funnelling through his hands. He has to put it down on the ledge or risk spilling boiling coffee on the palm of his right hand.

“Don’t start throwing accusations at me like you’re in my head. You had no idea what it was like to dam!”

Auston’s hands form into fists. “So tell me! Even at therapy, you’re this closed off mess of a human. You just expect our problems will fix themselves? I’m putting the work in here and you don’t respect me for one goddamn minute!” Auston’s legs thrash out and kick the stands. A hollow knock answers, reverberating back at them with a level of power.

Daniel stops skating. He looks over with wide eyes. Mitch’s heart rate stutters, something biological hosting his body. He’s clearly not the only one: Auston stops the assault on Mitch to draw a fake smile on his cheeks.

“Keep skating buddy, you’re doing great!” Auston says. Mitch can tell when his voice strains, how the corners of the words twist into little origami shapes.

In the end, Daniel is just a kid. He moves on relatively quickly and leaves them both exhaling in relief. It’s his parents that are the real problem. Their disapproving frowns come with layers of worry to pick at later. As fosters, they can’t stop the biological parents from having visitation rights but are entirely capable of placing restrictions. For someone like Auston, it’d be like being read his rights at the scene of the crime.

Auston takes bigger precautions in keeping their little dispute private. He pushes his shoulders up and creates a little blockade keeping Mitch separate from Daniel. The big, bulky winter coat he wears only makes matters worse.

Auston’s ducks his head down, his stubble rubbing against Mitch’s exposed neckline. His voice drops in volume, pivoting at a whisper.

“I don’t care if you’ve signed away your name rights or if you consider Don and Stacie to his foster parents or his real parents. I don’t care. You’re still a vital part to his life just as you’re a vital part to mine.”

“Oh piss off with that crap.” He tries to walk away and is manhandled back.

“I’m not taking another dam because of you, you know that right?”

“I never asked you to make that decision!” He sees Auston open his mouth and swoops in. “Shut up for one second--just once, please!”

Auston stops talking for one minute.

“I hate your weird fucking rituals. I hate being there for every birthday and milestone; we’re supposed to just fuck and leave him behind. Why can’t we leave him behind?”

“So I am an asshole for wanting to support him?”

Mitch pushes a hand against his heart. “I wasn’t! I got zip from both my breeders. It wasn’t until I was drafted by the Leafs that Doug came over and congratulated me with a handshake. Do you know how gratifying that was, to finally be noticed?”

He begins to hyperventilate. His mind wanders to the paper bag that the donut sits in, maybe he could use that to get his lung machinery working proper.

Now, his hand is flying out in every direction. The bones grind to dust and it’s just a flap of skin carouselling in circles. “That’s how it’s supposed to be! What if we put all this work into him and he fails?”

Auston gets right in his face. “He’s our son!”

“Not in the eyes of the law; he’s theirs.”

“So we’ll fight it! I don’t care what they made you sign, he’s our blood. I’ll throw down my stick if it means you’re happy and he’s safe. I hope you know that.”

Mitch closes his eyes. His spine constricts, bringing his whole body into kneeling position. The angle forces his coat zipper down and opens his collar to the cold.

The joints in his hands pop; they’re shaking so badly. “I’m not going to dam again, I won’t.”

A flash flood of horrible ick occupies his thoughts. It had been so hard. The team didn’t make the playoffs that year even with his half-brother taking the lead. His baby hurt him so badly they thought they would need to cut him open. He couldn’t do any training for weeks and almost missed out on the next season. He’d had to dodge article after article calling him weak for not nursing his child because he wanted to get a move on his own career.

And for what? To watch him skate in another man’s arms?

Auston blinks slowly. “I know.”

Mitch stands up straight. “So Daniel will be your only son then.”

“He will be great. Look at him.” Auston’s hand directs his head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

Daniel’s picking up speed now. He’s pushing around his pylon with knees bent. It’s rather unimpressive. The kid’s nose is running like crazy from being out so long.

“Mitch,” Auston’s voice goes flat, just in time for yet another speech, “I know it’s hard for you to believe but I didn’t choose this because I wanted a payday or some shit. Or--well, I can’t say it wasn’t superficial but I’m not going to abandon you just because things got complicated. I’m into this now, for life.”

Mitch is too choked up to reply. He keeps watching Daniel pick up the pace and tries to keep it together.

It’s Auston that turns his head back, still waiting for a response. “Just say something, please.”

“He’s got your stupid nose,” Mitch says. Just an astute observation; it wasn’t like he said the same thing in the delivery room.

The change in pace takes Auston for a loop. The man recollects himself before making his way back to Mitch’s side. They’re both charged with energy once more but they follow some arbitrary law of physics. So long as they don’t touch, that static won’t transfer. Mitch just needs to keep building walls.

“Yeah? Well, he skates like you,” Auston replies.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Nah. Just an observation.”

A man’s laugh slices through the bitter cold air. Don, with unlaced skates no less, has resorted to chasing the boy through hoops of red and blue. When he catches him, he tosses the child in the air with just enough carelessness to send both sets of Daniels' parents in trivial stages of grief. They look so happy together. A picture of them could be a placeholder for a parenting magazine for celebrities. Daniel’s got the face for it too; he takes to ice so well it’s near disturbing.

Mitch’s mom called Daniel a mermaid in love with ice and not water. He never processed the thought and just stuck it in the back of his subconscious. Now, it’s oddly fitting.

Don and Stacie are good people with nice paying jobs and plenty of opportunities and lots of love in the chance their kid doesn’t make it. Mitch remembers all too well the verbal abuse and lashings in his childhood. Like his dam, he was so small; his father had the expectation he would grow and became furious when he did not.

Mitch channelled a childhood of resentment into a downright brutal interview process. Auston was glued to the backseat, helpless but to watch Mitch leech the hopes and dreams out of those Wonderbread couples. Anyone applying for the position for the glory of having their last name on nationwide television or the grand monetary comeuppance that would be paid with Daniel’s success in the major leagues would be sniffed out and disposed of. Mitch knows the type, after all, he grew up with one.

He’s riding off of the whines of a child watching his dam play and choosing to abandon him to the fangs of a wolf. From the Fleurys, to Nugent-Hopkins, and all the way down to his line of half-brothers on the Isles, they were all successful. It made that pain so much worse.

Some days, he wishes he didn’t make it, that he took off his skates and never put them back on.

And sometimes, he wonders if he made the right decision. Will Daniel rip up the hockey cards of his dam too? Will Mitch still be his favourite player despite it all?

Tears well in his eyes. They build and build. In seconds he’s bawling. His patterns can’t put enough of them in a jar for later, the globs hook around his chin. The whimpers scoot up and overpower the slick of skate blades sliding over ice.

Auston’s by no means transparent. Hands close in on Mitch’s forehead and pull his head flat to Auston’s chest. Mitch can see the waterproof polyester collect the driblets before gravity shirks them down.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mitch says. It’s so concentrated with dampness that any strength is diluted. No flavour. Just carbonated water.

“Obviously not.”

Auston takes him away from that place up against the glass. No responsibilities or agreements to uphold. It’s just the two of them freezing their asses off. Mitch can’t gripe, it’s the perfect place to be. It’s where he _wants_ to be.

“I wonder if he knows who we are yet.”

“Probably.” Auston’s voice is so thick when Mitch’s ears are pressed to the vocal box. It rivets down his body, making his hair stand on end. “Apparently, he starts clapping and waving his arms whenever we’re shown on television.”

The visual image breaks Mitch’s stoic facade. “He’s cute.”

“He is. He’s got your eyes too you know. They’re coming in really blue right now.” Auston’s gloved hand strokes up and down the juts of Mitch’s hips. It’s the same comforting gesture he’d give over the term of cramping and tears. Always there, always ready to give.

Mitch snivels, knowing the arm around his side will clamp down. Daniel’s howling with laughter, being spun by his foster mother as his foster father takes multiple snaps. Mitch feels his eyebrows dip; it’s his way of taking a picture for later access.

His eyelashes feel heavy with moisture freezing into little niblets. He sheds with each blink. It’s sad to think he’s medicating himself with close contact but really, he’s just a pawn in all of this. It’s nice to relent control and let Auston pick up the slack.

Auston moves a hand up and the direct contact with the back of Mitch’s neck sends him flinching. If it hadn’t been for the fingers, Mitch would believe snow was just shoved down the back of his coat.

“Why aren’t you wearing a scarf? It’s freezing,” Auston says.

Mitch sticks both of his hands in his armpits. “Since when did you know how to dress warm?”

“Five years is long enough to find out I can’t wear a windbreaker in January. What’s your excuse?”

“Six,” Mitch corrects him.

“What?”

He adjusts himself, primarily to extort more heat from Auston. His legs uncross, the firmness of his jeans having cut the blood flow. “You’ve been here six years, remember?”

“Oh.” Auston brings his hand back and shoves them both into his jacket pockets. “Well, that proves my point then.”

Mitch hums; he sounds like a car engine trying to start in an ice storm. It’s probably in the negative tens with a forecast of freezing rain in the evening, and here he is congealing into a block of ice because of sitting on hard plastic to watch a three-year-old fall flat on his face.

But in an oddly therapeutic way, it feels like something he needed.

  


That night he takes Auston to bed with a series of frantic kisses. Each touch ignites the nerves under their skin and jostles them into a frenzy. There’s no mistaking how Auston handles him with care, checking and double checking protection before joining together in a blissful union, as per the usual.

**Author's Note:**

> Worldbuilding Notes  
> • Teams that breed a sire and dam get the option to pick them at a draft. They can choose not to take this option if their pick is considered more valuable but they forfeit the rights to the child.  
> ◦ If a sire and dam are from different teams, the team that owns/owned the dam gets priority.  
> • Dams usually breed once in their career. Sires breed an average of four times in a career.  
> ◦ The DPS states that a dam can only breed once a season and a sire two times,  
> ▪ A sire can only breed once a season if the dam is on the same team as them.  
> • Dams and sires usually give their child up for foster care. Newborns are given to experienced families for long-term care until they can be entered into the draft. The dam can forfeit all responsibility for the child but in doing so, will lose their name and birthright. Most dams do this to continue playing.  
> ◦ The family that adopts usually pays an enormous fee for the opportunity. The child will take their name. If the child manages to reach the draft, they are paid a bonus.  
> ▪ This motivates many hockey fathers to be outright abusive; for both the glory of seeing their names on television as well as receiving intense monetary gain.  
> • The NHL suffers from a homogenous gene pool. They readily accept players with no pedigree because they can breed them.  
> ◦ Purebred: a player with two (usually successful) players as a sire and dam.  
> ◦ Crossbreed: a player with a sire/dam in the NHL and a non-hockey player other, usually born post-retirement with a player’s significant other.  
> ◦ Mixed breed/Mongrel/Mutt: a player with no direct relation to the NHL.  
> ◦ Outcrossing: a player with a sire and dam on different teams.  
> ◦ Inbreeding: (not referring to incest) a player with a sire and dam on the same team.  
> ◦ Linebreeding: breeding a sire/dam in the NHL with the other parent belonging to a foreign hockey league (e.g KHL).  
> ◦ Show quality: a whelped child that reaches the OHL.
> 
> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!


End file.
